


One To Lead, One To Follow

by Sianco (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, M/M, Murder, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/Sianco
Summary: Poirot is falling, and all Hastings can do is watch. Sequel to Capturing Un Coeur. Established, slight Poirot/Hastings.(duplicate posting)





	One To Lead, One To Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a duplicate of an orphaned work, that I'm reclaiming to put back under my own name (teen!me was far too enthusiastic about orphaning /o\ ).

It's rather a strange feeling, watching your own funeral. It weird knowing you're in that black box they're lowering into the ground, and also knowing you're stood to the side, watching it all blankly. I remember dying, so I know it is me in that coffin. I remember my death so well.

It was another case. We were waiting in ambush for the perpetrator to leave the hotel, so we could surround him and take him into custody. Poirot and I were hidden behind a low wall. It all went as planned – the woman left the hotel, the police surrounded her, and she had nowhere to run to.

The only thing we didn't bank on was her brother being where he was at the time. He heard the commotion and came running. Realising it was all over, he screamed in desperation and pulled out a pistol. He didn't shoot at the officers. Instead, he turned and aimed at where Poirot, who had risen with me once the woman had been surrounded.

Instinctively, I turned and threw my body into the aim of the gun. There was a loud _crack_ and I felt a burning sensation which ran from my back to my chest. I looked down, and saw the tip of a bullet poking through my jacket, having gone straight through my back and out the other side.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the floor. Poirot followed, and I fear for a second that he had been hit too, but there was no blood on his shirt, only on his hands where he had caught me as I fell. At first, the police had not noticed I had been shot, but at Poirot's yell, Inspector Japp came running. He sent a sergeant for a doctor, before kneeling down next to me, and helping Poirot stop the bleeding.

But we all knew it was too late. The doctor arrived as I took my last breath.

They're all quiet during the ceremony. There aren't many of them – Inspector Japp and his wife, the Belgians that came over with Poirot, Francesca and Amelia, Miss Lemon... Even Dulcie is there, with her sister Bella. Even after Dulcie's disastrous attempt to court me during a murder case, they came back to pay their respects.

Poirot is there too – how could he not be? He's wearing the suit I always loved – a trim black number, with the green-gold waistcoat that drew attention to his enchanting eyes. Only now his eyes were decorated with drops of tears. Poirot was never a man to sob or to cry, or make noises for grief. He just stood stock still and let the tears trace a course down his cheeks.

Even if I jumped up and down, and screamed to the stars, they would not know I was there. To them, I was dead. I didn't exist. I was another soul, a friend that was lost too early. They couldn't see me, even if they wanted to. And even if they could see me, they wouldn't recognize me. Death does funny things to people. For me, Death took my lines, and gave me a set of wings.

Yes, you read that right. Wings. Though I have no idea why. They're frightfully annoying. Not only are they rather heavy, they're over ten metres long and about half as tall. They're arch shaped, meaning I cannot fold them away easily. It gave me much hassle trying to go through doors and such (of course, this was before I realised I could walk through walls). I must say through, they are a rather beautiful colour – a mixture of turquoise blue and bright green.

But that is of no importance. The most important thought in my head at the moment is that I'm dead, and my darling is stood grieving over my grave, and I can do nothing to help. I've wrapped my wings around him, and embraced him from behind, but he can't feel me there. I kid myself that he can feel something as he turns to look over his shoulder, but to be honest I know he can't.

I wish he could. So badly do I wish he could.

* * *

The changes in habit were subtle but after years of living with the man, I can tell almost instantly. He's moved over into my side of the bed, and usually ends up curled around my pillow like a small kitten. He's started using my mug to pour himself coffee into in the morning. He often takes one of my ties to wear in the morning.

He misses me, that I can tell. Although I'm worried for his well-being, there's a selfish part of me that revels in the fact that he hasn't forgotten me. Ever since the Rossakoff incident, there's been a part of me that basks in any attention Poirot gives me, good or bad.

But I suppose I haven't been doing him any favours myself. I've been living (if you can call it that) as if I never died. I sleep next to him at night, wings wrapped around us both, although there's no need for me to sleep. I listen to the radio in the morning and tell the news to him as he drinks his coffee, although I know he can't hear me. I give my opinions on new cases, even though they're as far from the truth as they can possibly be.

I still go on cases with him. That's the one good thing about these god-forsaken wings – I can fly after the train he's on and join him wherever he's going. Sitting in the train or car is always a bit awkward because it's odd seeing parts of your body going straight through a solid door. But it's all worth it when we arrive, because then I can watch him in his element, deducing and solving mysteries, just like we used to.

Though I must say, it looks as if even these are losing their appeal for him.

* * *

He's started to refuse any case that comes his way now. Miss Lemon used to offer him the ones from the mail, but now she burns any letters which aren't bills, and automatically sends consolation letters to the senders. It's disappointing. The man I knew was slowly fading, and although I loved him still, it seemed as if he were slowly dying without my presence.

I longed to hold him again, to tell him it would be ok. I wanted to be back by his side, and to bring him back to his normal self. I wanted hold his hand again, and kiss the compact knuckles, and have him feel those fireworks again. But, of course, whenever I tried, I would just slide right through him, as if my arms were made of nothing. Which, technically, they were.

All I can do is watch him fall deeper and deeper away from reality, and there's nothing I can do to stop him.

* * *

The next time I see him, he has changed.

His face is completely blank. His eyes aren't shining like they did, not with happiness, not with sadness. No smile graces his lips, just a blank grimace. He's making tea, in my cup, just as I like it – a splash of milk, no sugar. He never did like tea as much as I did. The English poison, that's what he called it. But here he is, making as if it were for me, as if I were there.

He leaves the room, but comes back again, clutching the sleeping powder his doctor had given him in his hands. It was still unopened, but Poirot broke the seal with a twist of his adept little fingers. He paused for a moment, before pouring the entire contents into the tea.

I watched silently, shock paralyzing my entire body. It wasn't as if I could do much in my present state, but I would've tried anyway if I wasn't so frozen. By the time I had regained control of my limbs, the cup was against his lips and he was drinking it as if drinking a nasty medicine. I desperately swung my hand at his arm, but it slipped right through, as usual.

He put the cup down, having emptied its contents. He washed it up, more meticulously that usual, and hung it up in its rightful place next to his own. I followed him as he left the room and entered his bedroom. He lay down on my side of the bed, and shut his eyes. I curled up next to him in my usual position, head on his shoulder and arm around his waist.

I didn't notice I was crying until the tears were sliding down my neck and wetting the pearly white collar of my shirt. I wiped at them, but they just kept falling, until all I could see was the blurry outline of my darling's curly moustache. I opened my wings and spread them across the two of us, as if to protect him from what was coming and held on to him tightly, tears running freely down my cheeks.

His chest rose up and down in its usual fashion, but slowly, ever so slowly, it fell for the last time, and he lay still against the bedclothes.

* * *

I'm at the graveyard again. I'm not watching my coffin this time, but that of my friend, my partner, my darling, the man who made all my dreams come true. There's a larger congregation for him than there was for me, but most are clients from old cases, come to pay their respects one last time. I was glad to note Rossakoff wasn't there, but Miss Lemon was, as was Inspector Japp and his wife, the several Belgians that came over with him, Amelia, Francesca as well as Bella and Dulcie.

They've dug him a grave next to mine. Everyone crowds round it, but everyone makes sure not to step on mine. It seemed like an unconscious decision on everyone's part to treat mine as they would Poirot's. It's nice, in a sad way, that they still think of me although I've been gone for more than six months. It's nice that they know that Poirot and I would stay together until the very end.

Speaking of the little man, I look over at him. He's watching the ceremony blankly, like I did when I watched my own. He has wings too, but unlike mine, his are a mix of gold and emerald green, and the feathers are meticulously aligned. They come level with his shoulders, and fall to the floor like a great feathered cape.

I walk over to him, and take his hand. Smiling gently, he looks at me and squeezes my hand, before we both turn back to the proceedings. We watch until the very end, through the pastor's speech and all our friends talking of us and how we were all those months ago. We watch as they all troop up to the chapel for tea and cake, leaving our graves coated in new earth and flowers. I tug at his hand, and I smile at him when he turns to me.

"Let's go home, old man."


End file.
